


There You Are

by jat_sapphire



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 08:22:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14540646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jat_sapphire/pseuds/jat_sapphire
Summary: Bodie has amnesia.  It's Ray he's forgotten.





	There You Are

I am standing in an empty warehouse. My hands are cuffed behind me, and there's a length of chain from the cuffs to something over on the wall. My feet are free. That's why I am standing up, alive, and the other two in the room are lying where they fell, dead. I can't remember doing it. I don't look down, knowing there's a right mess down there. Instead, I turn my face up to the skylight, to the thin grey light that might be November or very dirty glass.

I know I'll be rescued, though the belief is not rational. I've been standing in this welter of broken glass, nails, bits of broken concrete, vomit, shit, and blood for too long, and my legs are shaking. Just about when I'll have to find out whether that chain is long enough for me to sit down, the nearest door opens and three men dart in like piranhas: tough, armed, looking everywhere. The first one holsters his gun, looks at me, and grins to split his face: Christmas come early. “There you are!” When he steps toward me, for a moment I think he's going to take me in his arms, and I am suddenly afraid of getting him dirty. But he stops short. “We'll have you out of those. Oi, McCabe, Murphy, any handcuff keys down there?”

They're searching the bodies. I don't envy them. One just says, “No,” and the other, the larger one, turns over the bigger corpse and says quietly, “Doyle.”

That must be the first man, because he immediately goes to look. “Jesus Fucking Christ on a rope,” he says. “ _Shit_.” Then he rubs his forehead with one hand and pauses. I'm fascinated with the play of expressions on his face, as if I should be able to read his thoughts written there. “Wait, Murph, how did you know who this is?”

The bigger man is embarrassed. “There was a lot of, you know, talk. You _know_ the rest room. And the file room.”

“Nest of snakes,” the one who must be called Doyle says, absently. Then he stands straighter and says, “He'd better have 'em on him.”

The larger man (Murph? Murphy?) goes back to searching. “Lock picks?” he suggests.

“I was in too much of a hurry. Got any, McCabe?”

“No.” They all look round for a moment as if they might have overlooked, say, a blow-torch.

I find myself saying, humorously, “This rescue ...”

“Ungrateful sod,” says Doyle with a half-smile.

“Ah,” and the big one is standing up, his hands dappled with blood but keys in the one he holds out. Doyle waves him on, and he goes behind me to open the cuffs. As they let me go, I stagger forward, and he steadies me. Again, I expect/don't expect to be held close.

“I knew you'd come,” I tell him.

“Course you did.”

But then I have to spoil it, can't help it: “But who are you?”

 

* * *

 

Cowley's at the hospital as fast as Pettifer can drive him there, but the information isn't much beyond what Doyle gave him over RT, after he'd had a proper bit of stick for running off without permission: King Billy and one other gang-member, presumably the ones who kidnapped Bodie, are dead. Bodie was beaten. He doesn't remember any of it, or his own name, or who they all are. He retains names for a few minutes, no more. Doyle's voice, and later his face, show more of his distress than he knows—the skin is taut across his cheeks and jaw; his mouth is thin, compressed. He stands at Cowley's shoulder to hear what the doctor has to say about the X-rays.

The doctor looks sternly over his half-glasses. “I assume you already know about the older injuries. Not all of them are in the existing patient file.”

While Cowley sympathises with a desire for complete records, he is not minded to discuss security concerns that are almost a year old, or pig-headed refusal of medical treatment that's even older. “Concentrate on the current ones, Doctor Carter.”

Carter gestures to the first X-ray. “There's some tearing here in the arm muscles, from having his arms tied back while he was apparently fighting. Wrists a bit cut up and bruised from the handcuffs. Rest and antibiotics, perhaps salve, will do. Here—” on the next X-ray— “you have the bruising around the torso. Some of it is deep. But he's lucky not to have bone damage on the ribs.”

“Lucky,” Doyle says tonelessly.

“He has a concussion but not a severe one. That's not the source of the amnesia.” Now Carter is at the third image, this one a CT scan of Bodie's brain. “No damage to the media temporal lobe. No, definitely psychogenic amnesia. His memory of the event itself may remain blocked, but he should recover the rest—almost all—of his memory, gradually.”

Doyle is unnaturally still. Cowley says, “Thank you, Doctor. Treatment?”

The doctor shrugs. “Aspirin for his headaches. Psychiatric therapy to help rebuild his ability to form and access memories. That's a psychiatrist you'll need.”

“We have one,” Cowley says.

“And friendly support to keep reminding him.”

Doyle's mouth scarcely opens, but his words are decisive: “We have that too.”

 

* * *

 

Whenever a nurse or Cowley or Ray tells him his full name, Bodie laughs. “William? Andrew? Philip? Those can't belong to me.”

When Ray delivers a clean set of his clothes, Bodie says, “All these?” But he puts on each of his layers, and then says, “They are warm, though. Cozy. And becoming,” with such a familiar glint in his eye that Ray keeps waiting for him to confess it's all a big joke. Every time he doesn't, every time Ray has to think, _He doesn't remember_ , it's like a punch in the chest—especially when it's Ray's name that's gone again.

The worst is getting home from the hospital. Bodie and Ray haven't shared a flat for very long and have been complaining loudly and often in public about Cowley's miserliness in putting them together. But when Bodie sticks his head in their shared bedroom and sees Ray's book on the night stand, he immediately backs off and goes into the next room, the stage set, the one nobody has slept in since they took the flat. He's cheerful, but says, “How 'm I supposed to pull a bird and bring her home, when you're just the other side of this pasteboard wall?”

Doyle drops onto the lounge, gritting his teeth. He hasn't felt anything like this since Ann left. It's unbearable that Bodie doesn't know, and Ray opens his mouth to say something, but what, exactly? Bodie's been flirting hard with every female he's seen since they got him out of the warehouse, and that's totally normal for Bodie, except that for months now it's been all flirt and no pull. Cowley and Ray are the only ones who could tell Bodie that. Cowley clearly thinks it's not his business and Ray keeps desperately hoping Bodie will just know.

Ray's hands are shaking, aching to touch Bodie, except he's already tried a friendly arm around Bodie's shoulders, and the man walked right out of the loose hold.

 

* * *

 

I'm so pleased to be in this building that I keep rubbing my hands together. Back to normal soon! And I'll regain my past and know who the broody man is who lives in the same flat. Stands to reason he must like me if he's living in the room next door.

According to Doctor Ross, I'm ready for training. She's too pretty to talk all that jargon: reaction times, pattern recognition, object permanence. But they're all improved, and she even says I'm usually much more difficult to work with. But I don't have time for flirting while I'm trying to get my memory back, and it's no fun anyway if my flatmate isn't here to scowl at me.

He comes along to training, and two big fellows try to kill us. At the end I'm panting and a little dizzy, so I just stand hanging onto one of the gym ropes while the blond one tells me every bloody thing I need to do better.

He finishes, “Bodie, for God's sake, I never thought I'd be telling you this: pay attention to your partner. If the bullets had been live, he would've been spattered over the whole side wall, there.”

“Partner?” I work alone, I'm sure of it. But I look at the side wall, where another man is leaning, as drenched in sweat as I am. “The curly-top there?”

“ _Doyle_ ,” says the blond trainer with narrowed eyes, clearly wondering if I'm taking the piss. But I'm not. I'm too busy looking at the discouraged lines of this Doyle's body, the way he's tilted his head back, closed his eyes, let his mouth fall open a little. He looks all but dead.

“Oh, yes, Doyle.” I repeat the name, hoping to keep it, but I don't think I can. It's … slippery. “Maybe you should go in front.”

Then he straightens, and his eyes glint in a way that catches my breath. “I think I should,” he says, slowly.

I find out he can run like a train, like an arrow, and my heart speeds up even before I get my own legs going. And he fights like a demon, way above his weight grade. We don't win, but we're not bad if I do say so myself. Even the trainer says we did well. I clap my partner on the shoulder and say, “Ta, mate, good job,” but his expression changes even as I say it. I have the feeling he knows I've forgotten his name again.

 

* * *

 

“Report, 4-5,” as if it's an op, but Bodie's never a bloody op.

“Yes, sir,” Ray answers. “His marksmanship is excellent. If possible, I think he's even better than he was before the kidnapping. Our training sessions are more successful all the time. I'm sure you've had Doctor Ross's most recent report. I don't go to their appointments, but I can tell they're helping by our … partnership work. He remembers almost everyone's name almost all the time. He drives well, and can get from the flat to here and to training and all—knows the way, I mean. He's learned the important phone numbers. He's even,” Ray feels his mouth trying to smile and hopes it's not too pathetic, “found the Chinese and Indian takeaways nearest us. He can handle money perfectly well. He goes to the local.” And aren't those visits the best of times, Ray does not think.

“And his personal memories?” Cowley's regard is always sharp. Nothing odd about it now.

“Spotty. The older they are, the clearer they seem to be. He's told me a good deal I never heard before—” _And those stories, my Christ_ , Ray thinks, because they're so filled with past suffering, so drained of meaning in Bodie's even voice, so precious in his desire to share them, so utterly painful to hear as a lover when they're spoken to a helpful work friend. Bodie may as well tell them to Ross.

Though he knows Bodie does not tell the psychiatrist those memories.

“Excellent progress, then. We should go on to tactical and strategic work, I think.”

“Yes.” His voice is too dull. He should feel more enthusiasm.

By rights, the meeting ought to be over, yet Cowley doesn't end it, or even ask more questions. In fact, after what seems to be a long time, Cowley gets up and pours two whiskeys, brings Ray one and sips the other, and looks down, silent again. But then he says, “You didna mention recent memories.”

Ray laughs shortly, his eyes on the amber liquid as he swirls it. “There aren't many,” he explains, knowing he sounds bitter, but damn it, he is bitter. “Told me some about SAS and paras, didn't he, and how you interviewed him for CI5, a few ops he remembers. They sound strange, you know …” and he really has not wanted to say this, to admit it before Cowley's pitiless eyes, but now he must: “without me in them.”

“Still?”

“Oh, he knows I was there. If I say something about what I did, he's not surprised or resistant. He'll even take corrections when I remember it differently. But he skips my part, how we worked together.” _He doesn't know that he's saved me over and over, and I've saved him, so many times I can't count and have to pretend we're cats with nine lives. Eight to go, though it's probably more like three by now._

Cowley says, “It's a real problem that he doesn't recall how you worked. How can you go back to teamwork one of you has forgotten?”

Ray shrugs. Taking a sip of the whiskey, he holds the fire on his tongue until he thinks of a CI5 answer, then swallows and gives it. “We won't know till we try. All his other competencies are there, without him having to remember how he learned them, so why would he lose just one set of skills? I trust him. He's not a different man.” That may be a little far to go. But maybe Ray just needs to stay in front.

He's thought of starting the sexual relationship all over again, wearing the patched jeans, sharing longer gazes and laughing at all the jokes, because he knows all about what gets Bodie going, what little smiles or touches set him off. But that was the Bodie who wanted to goose him going up the stairs, not the one who still forgets his name.

“A difficult position for you to be in.” Cowley's voice is neutral, but that probably does mean what Ray thinks it means, and he can't bring himself to care.

He tosses back the rest of the whiskey and stands. “It's where I am.” Putting down the glass, he realizes he's angry, even if it's mostly with himself. “I can't tell him too much. I can't push too hard. I can't _force_ him to reclaim memories he's repressed—won't that make it worse? The doctors kept saying that he doesn't remember because he can't bear to, right? Something about _me_ he can't bear. How can I ask him—make him—” and he can't speak another word.

“I think you're mistaken.”

He meets Cowley's eyes, frankly for once. “I hope I am.” _I think I'm not._

 

* * *

 

Macklin has set Bodie to work in scenarios and in sparring sessions with other A-squad agents, not just because Cowley has finally given Doyle a case assignment, but because it's his personal conviction that these partners will never regain the edge they used to have. Their advantage has always been their consciousness of each other, whether they were bedevilling Cowley or reacting together in a firefight so quickly that it seemed telepathic. If Bodie has lost that double focus with Doyle, maybe he can rebuild it with someone whose name he consistently remembers.

It isn't bad with Murphy. They move together well, and as similar physical types, they run well together; make synchronised actions, like swinging on ropes, smoothly and effectively; adapt to sudden changes with decent speed. Nothing to write home about. The sparring's the same: Towser beats the two of them without breaking a sweat, and when they fight each other, neither is clearly superior. They're good-humoured and jokey with each other. At the end of the final bout, Murphy pulls Bodie up, and they hold the grip longer than necessary, grinning. Then they both see some newcomer. Murphy motions “come over here”; Bodie looks surprised—not unwelcoming, but not the way he would have looked in the past. Because, of course, Ray Doyle is the newcomer. His assignment must be complete.

Macklin stands on the balls of his feet, uncertain of what is about to happen, but aware that Doyle has brought an entirely new dynamic to the floor. His whole body broadcasts tension, if not outright rage. He saunters over, looking from one to the other, motions an invitation, and they all three start to spar. Bodie is a bit lazy, relaxed. Murphy is a little more wise to the atmosphere: his brows draw together, and he backs off when Bodie begins to fight in tandem with Murphy rather than Doyle. _Good man_ , Macklin thinks. _Keep it three individuals. We don't like too much blood on the floor mats._ In fact, after taking some solid blows to his head and body, Murphy leaves the other two to it.

Bodie takes a fighting stance and so does Doyle. They look like Alsatian and whippet, hackles rising—by this time even Bodie has realised that this is not a friendly bout. Doyle strikes out first, a kick. Bodie jumps back, then tackles forward. Doyle twists away, grabbing an arm and trying to bend it back. Bodie turns with the movement, gets his arm back, and drives the other fist into Doyle's stomach. Curling up with the blow, Doyle uncurls as fast and head-butts Bodie. For a moment they are both gasping and hugging themselves. Then they're back at it, going for each other's legs and heads. Macklin hopes Doyle hasn't lost his temper enough to give Bodie another concussion. He approaches the mat, thinking this has all gone far enough, so when Doyle improbably manages to pin Bodie down and hangs over him, Macklin can hear him: “God damn you to hell, do you know who I am?”

“ _Doyle_ ,” Bodie snarls.

 _Well_ , thinks Macklin, encouraged.

 

* * *

 

Ray knows Bodie's amnesia is in no sense his own fault. Whatever he is repressing isn't his fault either. But the whole situation is like a burn that won't heal; Ray's life is scarred and the best of it gone. He's with Bodie almost as much of the day as before, but it isn't his Bodie. This one seems simpler, maybe even happier (that burns too), but the one Ray loved is lost.

It's worse every day. Bodie gets better, is strong and dangerous enough for the streets, but Ray can't work with him unless he stays in front so Bodie can recognise him. That won't work. Since Bodie's already re-learning, he might as well learn a new partner, much as it guts Ray to think so. When he's not raging with jealousy, he even agrees that Murphy is the best of the options. But Ray will have an ulcer or start brawling in the rest room if he has to watch.

He simply cannot share a flat, live day by day with a ghost of Bodie and no partner and no lover. Ray knows himself well enough to be sure that he'll end up dead: careless of security the way he was with Mayli, reckless with the expectation of someone he could make a single gesture to and have an entire attack plan; turning to the quick fix of violence like Tommy—or even if he survives, he could easily get himself tossed off the squad by yelling at Cowley once too often.

No. He has to go.

Cowley takes the gun, the ID, the letter. He doesn't argue, or speak at all. The envelope in his hands turns over and over. Cowley doesn't even look at Ray until he is finished speaking. There isn't that much to say once Ray leaves out the emotional part.

“I have one requirement before I accept your resignation,” the old man says at last. He does look old, in fact, as if Ray's decision is taking years away from Cowley that he could have lived. “I want you to be fair to 3-7.”

“Fair to Bodie?” _Oh, that's painful. Cowley, you devil._ “How?”

“Laddie, we've never spoken of your … relationship. But it's clearly why you're quitting us, and it is deeply unfair not to tell Bodie about it. It was a major part of his life. He needs it back. And he needs to understand why you are leaving.”

Ray takes a deep breath and says, “Yes, you're right, you manipulative—”

Cowley raises one hand. “Now, now, 4-5.”

 

* * *

 

I sit on the lounge and can't understand what my flatmate is telling me. Ray, what Ray is telling me. It's too much, it's not believable, and it makes me want to pound him for keeping it to himself all this time.

I do know I find men as well as women attractive, and nobody with a pulse could fail to see how handsome and charismatic Ray is. I have thought … if he is ever less unhappy and tense, and if he stops shying away from me as if I'm going to knock his head off, then I may, some day … I'm not sure what. I knew there was at least one secret. I didn't know _I_ was the main secret. We are.

“We were good friends, the best, but more than that. We were Cowley's best team, the best of the best, but more than that too. We were lovers.”

I can't stop the chuckle that escapes me, but he looks at me as if I've just stabbed him. “Come on, you took _me_ on? You loved me?”

That cool, distant face of his is broken, alive and changing, full of life and pain, but now he almost laughs. “You dumb crud. Of course I did. I do. What _can_ you mean?”

“I don't know, do I? I can't remember. Don't you?”

“No, and it's doing me in.” All at once, he's begging, and I know he's a proud man, one who wouldn't beg for his life. “Just tell me, tell me what I did, what was so terrible you had to shut me out of your past.” He laughs, a sound like sandpaper on slate. “You can't, of course! I'm daft. Well, anything you do remember about me, about us. Just a hint, Bodie.”

And under the intensity of his stare, something does come back to me. “I remember your voice shouting, 'You're no better than he is.'”

“No, Bodie, that was—that was—” His face shows the same pain that memory gives me.

I ask hopefully, “Am I wrong? You never said it?”

I see him thinking, but he's not just proud, he's brave with it. “I said it. I was wrong to say it. The man I was talking about was evil, violent, cruel. You've killed, Bodie, and so have I, but you aren't like him at all. When you had a chance to kill him, you didn't.”

“I killed those men in the warehouse.” My voice doesn't feel strong enough to say it. “With my feet.”

His hands come toward me, as if he wants to take mine, or pat my arms, or touch my face, but then he lets them fall. “I wish I'd done them. With a gun, with a knife, with my bare hands. Before they hurt you.”

There's still some secret here. If it isn't that I kicked those men to death, or that I can't be his partner, or that I'm not his lover, why is he leaving?

As if he can hear me thinking, he answers. “Bodie, I can't stay like this. It's fucking killing me.” He means it. When he rubs his face, his hands are shaking.

We're both at the end of our endurance, I think. This knot won't untie, so it's time to cut it. I force cheer into my voice. “All right, you say you can't stay because you love me—seems crazy but if you say so. But it's not fair that you're not even giving me a choice. I don't know what I'm giving up. Couldn't you just give us a kiss or a cuddle to satisfy my curiosity?”

To him, this is tragedy, and he looks like he's half-confused and half-angry to see me treat it so lightly. “You mad berk.”

“Don't you say we have to be crazy to work this job, or it'll drive us mad?”

He's beyond joking, so he just shakes his head.

I coax him, “Let me have one kiss. Goodbye, yes? A goodbye kiss.”

“All right.” Ray thinks I'm winding him up, but he'll still give me what I want.

His face is so tragic that if he were entirely a stranger, I'd still put my hands on either side, fingertips in his hair, rubbing a little bit to remind him that we are together in this. This is for both of us, and if it is my first and his last kiss, it will still be good in itself. His eyes drift shut, but I can't stop staring.

He's not a stranger. He rescued me from the warehouse. He brought me to our flat. We've trained together, and I've relied on him. I've told him stories I am certain I've told no one else, because the expression in his eyes told me he would keep them safe. I don't know what my treacherous brain has against him, but I've learned his name and I know his heart, and I will have this kiss.

His lips are dry, shut firmly against his emotion, so I rub mine gently back and forth, a little open and as soft as I can make them. Then I kiss, twice, three times, tasting him and feeling his breath grow rough. He gasps, opening his mouth, and I have to have more, all the soft wet of him and his strong tongue writhing and his force as he pushes back, and his yielding as I push forward.

Then I look. His head is thrown back, he's panting and tears have forced their way out the ends of those lovely eyes. On the left, I notice, they're making a shining trail past the cheek implant, so I lick and kiss there, drinking the sad salt I cost him. Then I look again. This expression could be pain, despair, or joy past showing. I want it to be joy. “Open your eyes,” I whisper, but he doesn't. “Ray.”

His wet eyelashes fly up, and he stares at me. I will him to see the love and desire that are flushing up my body, tingling in my chest, filling my throat as if I were about to sing aloud. I grab his waist and pull him in close. His hands frame my face now, and he traces my eyebrows, cheeks, lips. “There you are,” he murmurs, “Oh, where've you been? Bodie, there you are.”

Then I could say it: “Stay. Ray, don't go.”

“Come to our bed,” he answers.

We go in that room I don't remember as my own, and we undress. I kiss places I don't consciously know are his favourites, his ear and under his chin, under his Adam's apple and below his collar-bone. Down his spine, between his arse-cheeks, the backs of his knees. Every time, I say his name, and every spot makes him sigh or hum or moan. He slicks me up, and I open so easily I know to my bones I've done this often. “Yes, Ray, fuck me.”

I pretend I don't feel the tears on my back. We'll do this again, many times, and he won't cry then.

I hold him in my arms, my maniac, and keep saying, “Ray. Doyle. Ray, Ray.” Each time I say it, I mean love.

 


End file.
